


Le Pont des Amours

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Tropes, Trope Amnesty Month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Jack and Phryne go for a late night stroll.





	Le Pont des Amours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whopooh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopooh/gifts).



> So, there was an absolutely stunning photograph of a night on Pont des Amours in Annecy, France. And I started looking at more photographs and the history of this bridge, which was opened in 1907, and I had to write this fic. Even if it is schmoopier than I usually go. 
> 
> Dedicated to whopooh, who needed it today. ♥

It was after midnight as they walked down the tree-lined avenue arm in arm, streetlamps to their right providing illumination and the canal to their left dark and still. Midwinter snow fell silently to the ground, and Jack leaned closer to speak quietly against her ear.

“Will you tell me what’s inspired this late night stroll?” he asked, voice deliberately husky.

“Patience,” she replied.

They’d arrived in Annecy, a town nestled in the French Alps, the previous morning; ostensibly to visit a friend of Phryne’s as they made their way south to catch a boat home, but they had naturally stumbled across a mystery before lunch. Still, the matter was settled, Phryne’s friend freed of the blackmailer’s demands, and Phryne had adamantly insisted that Jack join her for a trip to the small gardens that lined the nearby canal. He’d barely even protested against the time or the cold; he’d come this far for her, and a walk in snow hardly seemed the moment to balk.

Of course, if she found a body, all bets were off. 

Another moment or two and they reached their apparent destination, an elegant wrought-iron bridge that spanned the canal. 

“The locals call it Le Pont des Amours,” Phryne said, taking two steps onto the bridge and then turning to tug at his hand. “It’s one of the most beautiful views in the town.”

The pure joy in her expression and the falling snow against her dark hair as she pulled him onto the bridge made him smile, and he moved closer.

“I can think of one better,” he said, reaching out to catch her waist. 

Her laughter pealed across the silent landscape.

“Is that the best you can do?” she asked playfully. “Here, on _le pont des amours_?”

She raised an eyebrow in challenge and Jack realised he was overlooking some detail. He ran through her words.

“Bridge of lovers?” he asked.

“Very good, Jack,” Phryne said, leaning up; first to kiss his cheek, then to whisper against his ear. “I knew those French lessons were paying off.”

His lips quirked. “I’m fairly certain the words you’ve taught me are not the sort uttered in polite society.”

“I’d be disappointed in myself if they were,” she replied, pulling on his hand once more. “And there might be some slightly ironic nomenclature at play here—this is less about wooing beaus and more about ladies of the oldest profession.”

“Ahh,” Jack said with a nod, trying to hide his smile as he glanced up and down the empty bridge. “Is that why we’re here? I’m not sure the French courts will admit bared breasts as evidence, and I doubt I could convince my colleagues of the necessity.”

“We’ll have to make sure we don’t get caught then,” she said, leading him further onto the bridge for a clearer view. “Here.”

She dropped his hand and turned to face framework that lined the bridge, then gestured towards the horizon. The canal emptied into Lake Annecy, and on the distant shore he could make out the shape of another mountain.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said. “Whenever I visit, I like to walk here at least once.”

She breathed deeply, her gaze held by the landscape and a look of serenity on her face. 

“It is,” he agreed, stepping closer and leaning against the rails. 

They both stared over the water for some time, hands and arms brushing absently as they lost themselves to their respective contemplations, their breath visible in the night air. The comfortable silence, the view, the half moon reflecting on the still lake… if there was a heaven on this earth, it might be found in moments like this.

“I can’t marry you, you know.”

He started. For once, she was the one with her attentions more earthbound; it was almost disconcerting.

“I don’t recall asking,” he replied, turning just enough to study her profile. “Unless I talk in my sleep?”

She smiled, her happiness soothing any niggling fears her words had brought to mind.

“Not at all,” she said. “I just thought it needed to be said. It’s not personal.”

Jack nodded; no doubt there was some reason for her pronouncement, and he found it best to let her steam on until it was revealed.

“I’m accustomed to living my life by my own rules—”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She laughed again, eyes still focused on the lake.

“There are very few things in my life that are non-negotiable. Life has thrown me enough surprises that I’ve learnt to bend with many of them. But the ability to…” she paused, her clearly rehearsed words failing her. “But the ability to walk away if a relationship becomes untenable… that is one place I cannot yield.”

He studied her face for a moment. 

“It might surprise you, Miss Fisher, but having lived through years of estrangement and later court appointments… I understand that better than you might expect.”

“I know you do, Jack. It might be why it was so important to me to say it. We could have carried on quite happily indefinitely and never brought it up. I wanted to make it clear that it’s not… this is not a failure on your part.”

The thought had not crossed his mind, and yet…

“Thank you, Phryne.”

Silence fell again, the hush created by the snow uninterrupted by their discussion. Phryne was still thinking, not quite ready to say what was on her mind; Jack waited, trusting she would work it through. 

“There’s another story about this bridge,” she said eventually, turning to look at him. 

As far as non sequiturs went, that was surprisingly mundane.

“Murder? Mayhem?” Jack guessed, and she shot him a look of feigned disgust.

“They say that if you kiss your lover in the middle of the bridge, you’ll be together forever.”

“Is that so, Miss Fisher?” he asked. “And how many heartbroken men have you disappointed in this manner?”

It was a gamble, to meet her sincerity with teasing, but her smile grew as she stepped closer. She toyed with the collar of his wool coat, smile coy. 

“Oh darling, we weren’t _kissing_.”

Touché. He swallowed slightly harder than he would care to admit, and she moved even closer, tilting her head up in temptation. His hands reached for her waist, pulling her flush against him but resisting the call of her lips; she clearly had something in mind, and he wanted to see it play out. 

“It’s such a simple thing, a kiss,” she continued in a whisper, her eyes on his lips. “You just…” she inched closer “close the distance…” she was so close he could feel her breath “and then…” she kissed him, soft and sweet and certain, “voilà. Magic.”

His eyes had drifted shut so he could focus on capturing the moment; the taste of her lips, the contrast of her heat and the evening air, the last hints of perfume that lingered late at night. When he opened them again, she was watching him with his favourite smile—the small, secretive one he knew because he knew her, one shared in moments of understanding.

His hand moved from her waist to cup the back of her head, drawing closer to kiss her again. She hummed against his lips before pulling away with a grin that sent a mingled shiver of desire and dread. She was _thinking_ again. 

“What?” he asked.

“You’re stuck with me now.” 

Jack made a point of glancing up and down the bridge several times, brow furrowed.

“The story is the middle of the bridge?” he asked, and Phryne nodded. “Because by my estimations we’re at least three feet off. Presuming that it’s the distance spanning the canal and not the width of the bridge… how precise does this have to be? Did you bring measur—”

Her mouth was on his again, firmer this time.

“Jack Robinson, I will kiss you on every square inch of this bridge if you’re going to be pedantic…”

He couldn’t resist a small smirk.

“Then my plans have come to fruition,” he said, pulling her close once more.


End file.
